Working Stiff

Chapter 4

In the morning, the family had breakfast, and Joe drove Bryn to drop off Mr. French at her apartment, and then to see what was left of Fairview Mortuary.

It was a grim sight. Most of the building was still standing, but the other part was blackened and had collapsed in on itself. The serene little garden out front had been trampled into mush by firefighters and emergency crews.

“When you stage a rescue, you don’t go about it subtly, do you?” she asked. Joe shrugged.

“I tried that,” he said. “Fairview had hardened the doors. Only choice I had was to break down the loading-dock wall, and I had to use explosives to do it.”

“And you just carry those around with you.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I do. In my job, it pays to be prepared.”

“Like a Boy Scout.”

“With C-four.”

There were a substantial number of trucks pulled up in the driveway, unloading materials. Repairs, it seemed, were already under way, and a work crew in hard hats was swarming around the place looking purposeful. Bryn got out of the SUV and walked toward the building, then stopped. She turned to Joe. “What about the bodies?” she asked.

“Which bodies?”

“Fairview, Fast Freddy, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, Mr. Garcia …”

“The basement bodies. They were removed already.” Joe cleared his throat. “Mrs. Jones and Mr. Garcia were special problems. They were, ah, cleared separately.”

He meant dismembered. Or burned. Or both. Bryn felt a little wave of faintness come over her, and had to grip Fideli’s arm tight for a second until it passed. He didn’t say anything about it, which she appreciated. Once she felt steady again, she started to walk on—and then stopped, stock-still. She turned to look at Fideli. “Just those two?”

“Yeah,” he said, and his brows came down to a level, concerned line. “Why?”

“Because Fast Freddy was the same. Like me, I mean. Revived.”

“Fuck,” he spat, and pulled out his cell phone. He turned away and marched off, talking softly but quickly. She waited. He finally finished and came back, looking even grimmer. “Should have done a blood test. Damn it. Body’s already been processed and sent off for cremation.”

“Well—that’s okay, then, right?”

“Would have been,” he said, “except that nobody had any warning ol’ Freddy might get all better, get up, and walk away. Which he did. He’s in the wind.” He shook his head. “Listen, Bryn, I’ve got to get back—”

“Yes, of course. I’ll be fine, Joe. Thank you for … for everything.” Including, she thought, the clothes on her back … a gift from Kylie of a butter-soft tan sweater and jeans that fit like a dream. Even the shoes—loafers again— were her size, or close enough. Kylie had gotten her sizes and gone on a midnight shopping run, and that woman had some clothing feng shui, no doubt about it. “I’m sorry. I should have told you about Freddy.”

“You had other things on your mind, and I never asked. This one’s on me,” he said. He climbed in the truck and started it up, then leaned out the window. “Forgot to tell you, your ride’s over there in the lot. It’s the black one.” He tossed her a set of keys, which she caught automatically, still not understanding. He grinned at her and backed out, then gunned the engine to a full roar on his way out of the parking area and onto the main road.

Bryn watched until he was out of sight, then looked around again. She wasn’t quite sure what her role here was supposed to be, considering the damage that had been done—or she wasn‘t, until a big Cadillac sedan made the turn off the road and pulled up in the lot near her.

Lucy, the receptionist, got out and stood there, staring. “Lord,” she said. “I was told, but I didn’t believe it. Is it true? Mr. Fairview, gone?”

“And Freddy,” Bryn said.

Lucy tore her gaze away from the damaged building and glanced over at her, lifting an eyebrow. “I’m not crying over him. Oh, you didn’t meet him, did you?”

“No,” Bryn lied. “I went home. After … after what happened to Melissa.” That, Fideli had told her, was the official story, and it made sense. More sense than what she’d done. “I guess Mr. Fairview and Freddy were working late. They say it was some kind of explosion and fire.”

“Some of those chemicals are real nasty,” Lucy agreed. “It’s just awful. Well, I suppose both of us are out of a job.”

“No.” Bryn took a deep breath. “I … I was Mr. Fairview’s niece.”

“You what? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“He wanted me to make it on my own. Without any special treatment. You know.”

“Well, that’s just like him, fair as always,” Lucy said. “What a good man. But still …” She let it go. “I guess you’ll be inheriting the place? I know he didn’t have a wife or any children.”

“Yes,” Bryn said. “I’m going to get it up and running as fast as possible. You still have a job, Lucy—if you’re willing to work for me, I mean. I really need your help. You know so much, and I have so much to learn.”

“You must be related to Mr. Fairview. You flatter just like him.” Lucy tilted her head slightly, her expression gone calculating. “So you want me to be more of an administrator, then.”

“Of course, there’s a raise,” Bryn said.

“How much?”

“How much do you want?”

Lucy seemed startled by that, but she didn’t let it throw her too far off. “Thirty percent,” she said. “That’s only fair. There’s a lot more to really running this place than just answering the phone and handing out tissues to the bereaved.”

“I’m starting to realize that. Yes, that sounds fair. Shake on it?” She held out her hand, and Lucy took it for a brief squeeze. “I don’t think we’ll get much done today. Maybe we should make lists of what we need to find first.”

“First thing, you’d better start looking for a good downstairs man; they don’t come cheap. I do wish we’d never let Vikesh go. And we’ll have to make sure these construction crews know which permits they’re supposed to get.”

“Do you think you can handle that last part?”

Lucy smiled. “That’s what you’re going to be paying me for, Ms. Bryn.”

“Did we have anything scheduled for this week?”

“We had Mr. Granberry down there in the freezer—good Lord, we’re going to get our asses sued off for that, I’ll bet. I’ll be in touch with our lawyer to see if he can get ahead of that and offer some kind of settlement. It’d just be the meetings you had yesterday we have to worry about, and I’ll take care of that.” Lucy thought for a second. “Hmm I think Mr. Fairview had some private meetings booked. I only know that because I worked late a couple of times and people came in looking for him.”

“Do you remember any names? Maybe I can contact them.”

Lucy leaned against her car and patted her carefully lacquered hair as wind skirled through the parking lot, picking up ashes and random trash and stirring them ankle-high. “You think he was doing something illegal?”

“Do you?”

Lucy was quiet a moment; then she crossed her arms and stared off at the wrecked building with a distant expression. “I don’t know. He was a good man, but he had his darkness, Mr. Fairview. I know that. Those folks that came in at night—they seemed scared. And desperate. But he seemed to be helping them.”

“Lucy, do you remember the names? It may be important.”

She shook her head. “He was right there, soon as they came in. I didn’t even have a chance to ask. There was a man and a woman; she looked familiar but I couldn’t place her. I saw them twice. She didn’t look so good the second time. You think he was selling drugs?”

“Maybe,” Bryn said. “We need to find out what was going on. Is there anything you can tell me that would help?”

Lucy hesitated this time for so long Bryn thought that she wouldn’t bite, but finally she said, “You’re going to think I’m crazy.”

“No, I promise I won’t.”

“I think …” She took a deep breath. “I said the woman looked familiar. She did. She looked like one of the clients we had. And the man—I know he was a paying customer. The bereaved husband.”

“By client you mean …”

“Corpse,” Lucy said. “Deceased. Gone on to glory. Must have been the dead woman’s sister, I guess.”

“Probably.” Bryn wondered how much Lucy really knew, or guessed, or didn’t want to guess. “What about the other person you saw? Could it have been … a paying customer? Or a client?”

“Clients don’t go walking around.”

“Lucy.”

She didn’t look happy about it, but she finally said, reluctantly, “Maybe one of them looked familiar, too. Bryn, what the hell was going on?”

“Is,” Bryn said softly. “Is going on. I don’t know, but we have to find out. Is the phone still working?”

“I tried the number this morning, and it rang through to voice mail. I changed the message to say that we were closed for repairs.”

“Good thinking. Were there any messages?”

“I’m not supposed to check the messages. Mr. Fairview always liked to do that himself.”

“Lucy,” Bryn said, and smiled. “Come on. You checked them, didn’t you?”

“Well … only because of the accident. There were a couple from hospitals about pickups, but I took care of those.”

“Anything else?”

“Two that were strange,” Lucy said, “but strange calls to a funeral home aren’t exactly breaking news. Half the ones we get are pranks during the day. Can’t imagine how many end up on the voice mail during drinking hours.”

“Can I hear them?”

Lucy pulled out her cell phone and dialed, then handed it over. Bryn listened as the recordings played. The first one was definitely a prank, complete with giggling and drunken college come-ons. She deleted that one. The second, though, was interesting. It came with a long leader of silence, followed by a shaky voice saying, “This call is for Mr. Fairview. I-I need to meet tonight; it’s important. I have the money.” A phone number followed, and Bryn quickly rooted in her purse for paper and pen to write it down.

“What are you going to do?” Lucy asked.

“Find out what he wanted,” Bryn said. “Wait. There’s another one.”

This voice didn’t sound at all shaky. It was a man’s voice, and it sounded hurried and sharp. “You were supposed to meet me,” it said. “Don’t stand me up again. You know where. Tonight, nine.” Nothing else. Bryn would have assumed it was a wrong number normally, but not this time. That’s him, she thought. The supplier. The Pharmadene leak. He hadn’t said his name, or left a number, or even specified a location. Fairview would have known.

But Fairview had taken it to his grave. Still, it was a lead. And if the number could be traced, maybe they’d have a name.

That fast? Bryn felt a surge of unease. If it had been that easy, McCallister wouldn’t have bothered to bring her back at all … and if she presented him with the solution on day two, what was there to keep her alive?

“Anything else?” Lucy asked, clearly interested now. “That one must have just come in. I only heard the prank calls, and that weird one to Mr. Fairview about having the money.”

“Just a wrong number,” Bryn said. She erased the message and handed Lucy’s cell phone back. “Thanks. Listen, why don’t you take the rest of the day off? Nothing we can really do here. Tomorrow, we’ll go in and see what we can salvage. Wear something you can get dirty; I don’t know how much smoke damage there is in there.”

“All right. See you tomorrow, Bryn.”

“Bye.”

Lucy got back in her Cadillac and drove off; Bryn watched her go, then looked around the lot.

Mr. Fairview’s car was still there. He, of all people, would be most likely to have GPS installed in his private vehicle, and GPS kept a record of destinations.

The car was locked, of course. Bryn tried the keys Fideli had given her, but they didn’t work. She peered in through the heavy tinting and saw that sure enough, there was built-in navigation. Perfect. The only problem was getting in. An alarm light was flashing on the dash, and she didn’t want to attract the attention of the construction crew.

If Joe Fideli had been here, he’d probably pop the lock in two seconds, using a harsh look and a bobby pin. She was not the car-theft expert.

But she knew enough to come back later, when nobody was around.

Nothing left to do here, then. She examined the car keys Fideli had given her, then looked at the choices. The lot was mostly empty, except for Fairview’s other parked vans, hearses, and limousines, but tucked over in the far corner, next to Fast Freddy’s sports model, sat a long, sleek Town Car. Bryn unlocked it with the remote and slipped inside. Warm, buttery leather interior. It was an automatic transmission, which was a relief, and when she poked around in the pockets she found that the car was registered to Fairview Mortuary, and she was listed as the principal driver. It was brand-new, apparently.

It started up with a purr that was hardly audible at all, but it grew to a low growl as she pulled out of the parking space. The acceleration on it was alarming, and she had to hit the brakes, fast, to avoid overshooting the stop sign at the top of the rise that led to the road. Pulling out into traffic wasn’t just easy; it was scary easy. She’d expected it to be less … powerful.

Somewhere, a phone rang. A cell phone on the seat of the car. She tried to fumble for it, but she didn’t need to; a speaker inside picked up the call and magnified it for her. “Ah … hello?”

“Bryn, it’s McCallister. How are you doing?”

“Doing?”

“Feeling.”

“Fine, I guess.” She looked at the clock on the dashboard. “Uh, I guess I need to come in for a shot?”

“Yes. No later than three p.m. We’ve programmed in Pharmadene as a destination for you on the navigation system. Head this way. I have some things to show you, and something you have to sign for.”

“What?”

“Your gun,” he said. “You did ask for one, didn’t you?”

He didn’t say good-bye, just hung up on her. She glared at the console, then pulled over to the side of the road and punched commands into the nav. Pharmadene was codenamed DOCTOR, she guessed; it was the only destination programmed. Surprisingly, it wasn’t that far away, and even if it had been, the Town Car was a pleasure to drive. There was something amazingly simple and Zen about letting everything fall away and concentrating on the road, the view, the ride.

At least until her phone rang again, and she heard her sister Annalie’s voice say, “Bryn? Bryn, I’m in trouble. Bryn?”

You could live, you could die smothered with a plastic bag, you could get brought back by some sci-fi nightmare robots in your blood, but some things just never, ever changed. “What is it this time, Annie?” Though Bryn could have made book on what the problem was, actually. Annalie’s emergencies were always one of three things: men, money, or a combination of the two. The only good thing was that Annie didn’t drink and didn’t do drugs; that would have made things so much worse.

From the tone of Annie’s frantic voice, Bryn guessed money, and she was right. “I don’t know what happened; I was so careful, but I’m short. I think maybe somebody stole money from my account….”

“How much are you short?”

“Only about a hundred bucks.”

Of course, Annie rarely had more than two hundred in her checking account, ever. Bryn shook her head and said, as she always did, “I’ll send you the money.”

“Uh, today? Because, you know, rent and stuff.”

“Can’t you get Walter to give you an advance?” Walter being her boss, and an old friend.

“He already did,” Annie said. “Uh, last week. I swear, I don’t know how I got so screwed up this time.”

Annalie never did. She was hopeless with money in general, and she skated by on check floats and loans—always had. If she weren’t her sister, and honestly so good at heart, Bryn would have cut her off, but Annie didn’t have a mean bone in her body. She had a job, a steady one, working the bar at Hooligan’s Tavern, and Walter was pretty tolerant of her money problems so long as the till didn’t come up short. Which, curiously, it never did. Annie could add like a fiend when she was on the clock.

“I’ll send it to you today,” Bryn promised. “Overnight mail. Okay?”

“Okay You’re a doll, Brynnie. I love you.”

“Love you, too. Hey, did you hear from Tate?”

“Nothing since the last cryptic e-mail. Guess he’s still in country.” Their brother Tate, only a year older than Annalie, was in Afghanistan now, halfway through his rotation. They all tried to keep track of the casualty lists, just in case, but so far Tate had demonstrated the same trademark luck he’d always had. Drop that boy in the thick of the battle and he’d emerge unscratched.

Nothing like Bryn. She’d managed to get herself killed in a morgue.

“Okay, give Mom and Dad my love, okay?”

“’Kay.”

Short and sweet, that was Annie. She never chatted when she asked for money; Bryn guessed it made her uncomfortable. The next call would be about her latest boyfriend, and what she’d bought with Bryn’s loan, and the latest frantic night at the bar … normal life.

Bryn wondered what the hell she was going to have to say during that conversation. Because her life right now wasn’t exactly … something she could chat about. Family get-togethers were going to be odd and awkward from now on. Mom would be asking about when Bryn was going to give her a grandchild, which had always been a little bit weird, but was now going to hurt, a lot, for reasons Bryn couldn’t possibly explain. Her oldest sister would be full of advice about that, most likely; she was the fertile one. Bryn never saw George or Kyle, which was a relief; Kyle was a criminal, and George was an asshole, despite being her brother. Bryn felt closest to Annalie, for all her screwups, and Tate, for all his absences.

Hey, guess what, guys. I’m dead. Apparently forever. But, you know, still hanging around. Cool, huh?

That would be one to drop into conversation over the barbecue grill and beer.

Oddly, hearing Annalie’s utterly normal crisis had made her feel better, steadier, more herself. Life goes on. Bryn’s undead, but Annalie’s still overdrawn.

She found herself smiling as she pulled into the drive leading to Pharmadene, following the green line on her nav system. She hadn’t noticed, leaving in the dark the night before, but this place was huge. The driveway was probably a half a mile, with two guard posts, both of which she had to pass with video conversations between the armed security presence and McCallister before being allowed to proceed. Her car was searched. She was searched, in a pat-down worthy of airport security. And finally she was allowed into a parking garage, which was the size of an office building on its own.

She was directed to the basement, which seemed weirdly appropriate, and, of course, armed security met her at the elevator. She wasn’t given a choice where to go, but she was issued a badge with her picture on it—creepy, because she was sure she’d never posed for it. God, had they taken it when she was dead? No, this looked more like a hidden camera had snapped her from a distance. The badge had a red stripe at the top, and some kind of holographic image superimposed on it. Pharmadene’s logo, she guessed.

“Miss Davis,” the security man said who was escorting her. He had on a blue sports coat with the Pharmadene logo on the breast, and a badge with a green stripe. “Let me familiarize you with the rules. You’re not supposed to be here from this point forward, but I’ll go over the rules in any case. You will go only to your designated floor, and proceed straight to the person with whom you are meeting. You’re authorized for that person’s office, the common break-room areas, and the restrooms. Nowhere else. Understood?”

“What happens if I go to the wrong place?”

“Alarms go off, and we go Code Red. Not a good thing. Please mind the rules.”

Well, that was good to know. Code Red didn’t sound like much fun, at least for her. “I’ll be careful,” she promised. The elevator doors opened on the seventh floor, and the guard walked her down a plushly carpeted hall that seemed to stretch on forever, to a door with no number, just a sliding nameplate that said MCCALLISTER, P., DIR. SECURITY.

The guard knocked, waited for the okay, and ushered her in. He didn’t follow, and when Bryn looked back she saw that the door had closed behind her.

Patrick McCallister, wearing a fresh (but still beautifully tailored) suit and tie, came around the big modern desk and offered his hand. She took it, not sure why they were so formal all of a sudden, and took the square padded guest chair he indicated. “You’re looking better today,” he said, which was a backhanded compliment, at best. “Slept well?”

“Yes,” she said. She wasn’t sure if he knew she’d been at Joe Fideli’s house, and didn’t say, in case there were rules against it. “Surprisingly, I did. Maybe the nanites come with a Valium setting.”

That surprised him into a smile, a genuine one. He was entirely different in that moment, and it caught her off guard. She looked away. When she checked, he was back to his old, unsmiling, very corporate self. “Let’s get the obvious out of the way,” he said, and reached in his desk drawer.

She was expecting to see the gun he’d promised, but instead, out came the pneumatic syringe. I’m really going to get tired of this, she thought, but rolled up the sleeve of her sweater and took the shot without complaint.

“Now. More forms for you to sign.”

“Lovely.” Bryn picked up the pen and clipboard and began flipping through, trying to glean from the legalese what exactly was being promised. It looked like the standard sort of safety disclaimers. Shoot anybody with the weapon we provide you and we’re not liable. Whatever. She signed. “I would have thought being undead came with less paperwork.“

“Not in the corporate sector.”

“So am I a real Pharmadene employee now?”

“Unfortunately, you’re not only official; you’re my responsibility.” He opened his desk drawer again, took out a box, and passed it across to her. She swung open the hinged top. Nice. A Beretta 92F S, basically the same as the weapon she’d been issued in the military. He’d included two boxes of ammunition as well. “It’s registered to you personally,” he said. “No direct connection to Pharmadene, as a security measure.”

“Plausible deniability.”

“Exactly. Should you go shooting up the town on Saturday night, the company won’t be implicated.”

“Am I likely to do something like that?” Bryn asked, checking the slide on the pistol. It was smooth as silk.

“Are you asking me if the drug makes you go insane? No. Not in any of our clinical trials.”

“Well, that’s reassuring.”

“And I think we already established that it doesn’t make you crave raw meat or brains.”

“Even better.” Bryn put the gun back in the box. “Still, this is quite a statement of trust, all things considered.”

McCallister cocked his head slightly, watching her with those secretive, slightly sad dark eyes. “Not really,” he said. “Pharmadene owns you now, Bryn. They control your access to the drug, and that absolutely guarantees your loyalty and service. Doesn’t it?”

That was a harsh way to put it, and she felt a bright surge of anger inside. “Or it guarantees that I want to punish them for it,” she said.

“Not advisable to take it there.”

“Because you’ll stop me?”

“Yes,” McCallister said, and she was suddenly aware of his stillness. It wasn’t quite human, the way he could shut down like that. And the look in his eyes … She’d been in the military, and she knew a stone killer when she saw one. “That’s what they pay me to do.”

She understood that; it hadn’t been any different being a PFC in Baghdad. Whatever your personal feelings were about what you were ordered to do, you did it, unless it was illegal or immoral. And sometimes, she had to admit, you did it even then, because the gray areas were pretty broad.

“Good to know,” she said softly.

McCallister relaxed in his chair, as much as he ever relaxed. “Good to have it clear between us,” he said. “I understand you spoke to your sister on the way here.” That was another unpleasant little jolt, and Bryn let him know she didn’t like it without a word being said. McCallister gave her one of those little half smiles again, the kind that meant he didn’t really mean it. “You’re the property of Pharmadene now, Bryn. You won’t have a personal life we won’t know about. Sorry if that upsets you, but you’re now carrying top-secret information, and we can’t afford to let you just roam around without checking up on what you’re saying.”

“And what did I say?”

“Nothing specific, which is exactly what we’d like you to say. Nothing to anyone. Your family’s not close geographically, which is good; we’d like you to limit your interaction with them to phone calls for a while, and discourage any kind of visits. Having your sister get curious about this unknown out-of-the-blue uncle you’ve just acquired would be … awkward.”

“My family wasn’t planning any get-togethers until the holidays,” Bryn said coldly. “Is Big Brother going to spy on me on dates, too?”

“Probably,” McCallister said. “At the very least, your gentlemen friends will be checked out thoroughly. Or lady friends, if your tastes run that way.” He lifted an eyebrow, as if mildly curious.

“I thought you’d probably already know that, since you know so much about me.”

He shrugged. “I try not to pry except where strictly necessary.”

Which was so ridiculous that she wanted to hit him with a blunt object, preferably a bullet. “Didn’t you have something to show me? Or was this just an opportunity to humiliate and frighten me again?”

“And give you a loaded weapon.”

“That, too.”

McCallister stood up and came around the desk, passed Bryn, and opened the office door. “This way,” he said, and left. She scrambled up and after him, because he wasn’t waiting on her. “Well, that’s rude,” she muttered, and hurried down the hall to catch up. “You know, if I go somewhere I’m not supposed to, this badge thing goes off.”

“I know. I designed the system. If you’re in close proximity to me or someone else with a green badge, you’ll register as being escorted. Of course, until you try to open a door. Then you’ll set off a Code Red.”

“And what exactly happens during a Code Red?”

“You get thrown to the ground, handcuffed, and Tasered. If you’re lucky.” He sent her a half-amused glance. “Oh, and don’t think that you can randomly shadow someone with a green badge, either. We’re all well trained to challenge intruders and hold them for security. You wouldn’t get far.”

They rounded a corner—and this hall looked pretty much exactly like the last one, Bryn thought. Pharmadene wasn’t big on decorating. Now that she thought about it, McCallister’s office had been one big pile of modern nothing, too. No photos, plants, desk toys, the usual stuff people gathered around them. Not even a nonstandard paper clip tray. Of course, that could have just been him; he didn’t seem like a cube-toy-and-kitty-poster type of person.

But as she glanced into a couple of nearby open offices, Bryn thought it might have also been corporate policy, because she’d never seen such personality-free workspaces. Everything matched, everything alike, everything company owned.

Like her.

“In here,” McCallister said, and swiped his card to open up a closed door. No nameplate, she noticed, but didn’t have time to ask what they were doing here. He ushered her in with a light touch at the small of her back, not quite a push. The fluorescent lights overhead flickered and came on automatically, revealing … an unoccupied office. Completely bare, except for the same stripped-down glass-and-chrome desk McCallister had, only this one was without accessories, a computer, or anything else except a desk chair in a plastic dust jacket.

In the desk chair sat Joe Fideli, who reached into his pocket and took out a small device. It looked like a black plastic pyramid. He pushed the top of it, and it glowed red in slow, hypnotic pulses.

“What—” Bryn started to ask, but McCallister put his finger to his lips. She subsided, waiting, until Fideli checked something on his smartphone, then nodded.

“We’re good,” he said. “Just keep your voices down. I can’t do much about the soundproofing in here.”

“What the hell is going on?” Bryn asked.

“I wanted to tell you something,” McCallister said. “Something that shouldn’t be on Pharmadene’s public record.”

“So talk to me after hours.” If you ever stop working, she thought. She couldn’t imagine McCallister without his suit and tie. He wasn’t an off-duty kind of guy.

He and Fideli both shook their heads. “Doesn’t work that way, sweetheart,” Fideli said. “You already know you’re being followed. Thing is, we’re all being followed, monitored, tracked, you name it. You work for Pharmadene. You’re their property, twenty-four-seven. Having any kind of private conversation is a real effort.” Fideli looked at the red glowing device, which was pulsing just a bit faster now. “Enough chitchat. We’ve got about two minutes before I have to shut it down. Talk fast.”

McCallister turned to Bryn and said, “When you get the name of the person selling the drug to Fairview, I want you to tell Joe that you need to see your sister Sharon.”

Sharon. That sent a shock through her, and made her take a step back. “What do you know about Sharon?” Sharon had walked out of the house at nineteen and never been seen again. She might have run away. She might have … not. Privately, Bryn had always thought that something terrible had happened, something they might never fully understand, but the rest of her family carried on talking about Sharon as if she were still alive, still just absent.

“Nothing,” McCallister said. “It’s a signal to let him know we need to meet off book and exchange information. This is for your own safety, Bryn.”

She blinked and looked at Fideli. Him, she felt she could trust. “Joe?”

“He’s playing straight with you. Listen to him.”

“Why can’t I just do what you told me to do? Find the seller and turn him in?”

“Because,” McCallister said, “once you do, your usefulness to Pharmadene is over, and they’re not going to waste one more dose of Re turné on closed business. Understand? Succeed, and you’re dead.”

Her mouth opened and closed, but she couldn’t think of anything to say. The look on his face, anxious and earnest, convinced her that he meant what he said. Her life— whatever it was—hung by a very slender thread, and Pharmadene’s faceless bureaucrats and accountants held the scissors.

“I’m an investment,” she said. “Once I no longer pay off …”

“Exactly. They’ll let an investment mature, but a useless tool … gets discarded. Play for time. Give me a chance to find a way to keep you alive after that objective is achieved.”

Fideli held up a finger, watching the now rapidly strobing pyramid. “Thirty seconds, man.”

McCallister glanced at him, then focused back on Bryn. “Please,” he said. “Do what I’m telling you. And be careful.”

“Why do you care?” she asked, mystified.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “I don’t think you’d understand even if I told you.” His cell phone buzzed for attention, and he pulled it out and checked the screen. “I’m due for a meeting in fifteen. We need to wrap this up.”

The little flashing-red device was really working now, clearly warning them failure was approaching. Bryn quickly looked at Fideli. “One more thing: did you find Fast Freddy?”

“Not yet. But I will, no doubt about it.” He glanced down. “Time.” He tapped the top of the pyramid, and it went back to a lifeless black plastic object. He waved silently at the two of them, shooing them to leave. McCallister nodded, opened the door, and ushered Bryn back out into the hallway. As they left the empty office behind, it was like the whole thing had never even happened.

“You have a full understanding of your position with us, Bryn?” McCallister asked, back to the poised, confident corporate exec. She had no choice but to nod. “Excellent. If you have any questions, my number’s programmed into your cell phone, as is Joe’s. If we need to meet, you can call me and ask me out on a date.”

“Excuse me?”

“Was that unclear? Ask me to coffee. Or dinner. Whatever seems convenient. Simply to ensure you’re maintaining your cover in the field.”

“You are unbelievable.”

There went that tiny little smile again, tight and controlled, meaning nothing. “I do date, Bryn. Occasionally.”

She bet he did it on a schedule. 1900 to 2100 hours, dinner. 2100 to 2115, drive the girl home. 2115 to 2130, sex. 2135, shower, kiss good-bye. 2140, drive home.

“I don’t date jackasses,” she said. “Just so we’re clear.”

If she’d expected to hurt his feelings, she was disappointed. “You express yourself with great clarity,” he said, as if it couldn’t have mattered less to him. They were back at his office again, and he opened the door and went inside. When she tried to follow, he held out his hand to stop her at the door. “Your escort will be with you in a moment.”

“What about the, uh, Code Red?”

She was already talking to the wood, which had closed decisively in her face.

She needn’t have worried. By the time she’d finished the sentence, there was someone at her elbow wearing a green badge and a Pharmadene blazer, mutely inviting her to proceed toward the elevator, please.

“Jackass,” she muttered to the door, and followed orders. She had the feeling there were going to be a lot of orders to come, and she wasn’t going to enjoy it.

At all.

With nothing better to do than wait for the construction, Bryn went back to her apartment. It felt very strange pulling the big, shiny Town Car into a slot in the very working-class parking area; she felt like a total fraud. Her neighbors would be gossiping like mad, dying to know how she’d come into such a windfall. She’d have to get her story together.

Right. Rich dead uncle, inherited the business, blah, blah.

Bryn climbed the stairs to the second floor and unlocked the door, not even thinking about any of it; she was focused instead on the heavy weight of the box in her arms that McCallister had given her. Have to get a holster for this sucker, she thought. Having a heavy handgun like this rattling around in her purse or stuck in her waistband, gangsta style, wasn’t going to cut it.

She hip-bumped the door closed and reached for the light switch, then hesitated, because her instincts suddenly woke up and screamed. She didn’t know why for a second, and then she heard the subtle whisper of breathing in the dark.

Oh, God. Fast Freddy. He’s here!

No time to get the box open and the gun ready for use.

Bryn dropped her purse to the floor, flipped the light switch, and swung the heavy box in a short, powerful arc that connected perfectly with—

Nothing.

It didn’t connect at all, because the breathing wasn’t human, and there was no head in the way. Her bulldog, Mr. French, looked up at her with sleepy, disappointed brown eyes, snorted, and shook himself in a ripple of loose skin and fur. He turned around three times and plopped down on the floor next to his empty food bowl.

“Holy crap, dog, you scared the hell out of me!” Bryn gasped, and staggered over to the small card table she had in place of a dining room set. She put the box on it, retrieved her purse, and clicked the dead bolts firmly shut before coming back to glare at Mr. French. He snorted again. “So this is how it is, huh? You lurk in the dark and creep me out, and expect to be fed? Is that it?”

He put his head in his bowl and gave her the melting puppy-dog eyes. Bryn groaned and gave up. She kicked off her shoes and opened the pantry, pulling out the sealed bin of dog food; Mr. French obligingly and politely moved out of the bowl for her to pour, then sniffed the food. He always did that, as if he were in doubt about its quality, but this time, again, it passed doggy muster, and he began digging in with sharp little crunches. She refilled his water bowl, too, and checked the papers in the corner of the apartment. No messes. Mr. French had his standards about that, but now that he’d supped a bit, he looked up and her and wiggled his butt to let her know he was ready. She sighed and reached for the leash, and he padded over with great dignity to be harnessed for the trip outside.

Once his business was finished, it was back to the food bowl for more. Bryn watched him eat, mindlessly soothed by his happiness. Food consumed, Mr. French waddled over and jumped up in her lap, where he leaned against her, a solid little weight of muscle and fur. She petted him and scratched where he liked it and talked to him about nothing in particular, until suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks and Mr. French was staring up at her with concern on his old-man face and trying to lick the sadness away. She hugged him. He had dog-food breath, and he needed a bath, but it was good, so good, to have someone love her right now.

“I’m sorry, baby,” she said, and kissed him on the top of his furry head. “Was your day better than mine?”

Mr. French barked, just once. He knew when she asked him a question, and although his reasoning skills were a little suspect, she had the feeling that on this one, he’d almost certainly agree.

It felt so good to be home, with her clothes in the closet and her robe hanging on the hook in the bathroom. The shower felt great, and as the hot water beat down on her head, Bryn Davis, dead girl, sat down in the tub and let it carry away all the tears, the sweat, the fear, and the anger. And if she cried a little more, it didn’t bother Mr. French, who did sentry duty curled up on the bath mat until she shut off the water, dried off, and got into her robe. Then he padded his way into the bedroom and hopped up on the unmade bed.

Routines. She’d come so close to never making it back here to this, to the dog, to her life. Maybe it wasn’t much; maybe in Patrick McCallister’s terms this didn’t constitute a useful existence, but she liked it. Her apartment was spare, but nice; she had what she needed, and a few things she wanted.

“But everything’s changed,” she told Mr. French as he curled up on the bed beside her. Her hair was still damp, and she fluffed it as she leaned back against the stacked pillows. “I’m not the same as I was. You know?”

He huffed a little, which she interpreted to mean, Oh, well, nothing stays the same. And as always, the dog was right.

Bryn rested for a while, then checked the clock. It was seven p.m., and the voice on the message had said to meet at nine. The only question was, where?

Time to go back to Fairview and find out.

She blow-dried her hair and dressed in dark jeans and a black sweatshirt, tied her hair back in a ponytail, and rooted around for her most comfortable running shoes. As she strapped them on, Mr. French watched with troubled interest. He whined softly as she stood.

“No, you can’t go,” she said, and patted him on the head. “Tell you what: we’ll go for a run in the morning, okay? You stand guard here.”

He licked his chops and sat down next to the bed, and she felt a surge of love for this one relationship in her life that wasn’t even a little bit complicated.

Then she went to perform some crime.

Driving to Fairview Mortuary at night was a special kind of creepy. Not the drive itself; that wasn’t so bad. But getting out of the car in the growing shadows … not so great. The place looked like a classic Gothic nightmare waiting to happen, from the silent, lightless, ruined building to the undertone of tragedy that still vibrated in the air, like smoke.

She’d just walked over to Lincoln Fairview’s silver Town Car when the last rays of sun faded, and the touch of darkness felt claustrophobic. The tire iron from the extremely clean trunk was in her hand, and as she raised it to smash the driver’s-side window, a voice behind her said, “You sure that’s a good idea?”

Bryn spun around, tire iron held in a death-tight grip, ready to defend herself, but it was only Joe Fideli. She hadn’t spotted his truck anywhere, but Joe himself was now lounging on the fender of her car, arms crossed, looking calm and a little amused.

“Noisy,” he said. “Glass everywhere. Alarms. Even out here, you run the risk of attracting attention; plus someone’s going to report the break-in later.”

Bryn calmed the panicked rush of her heartbeat with slow, steady breaths, fighting the push of adrenaline, and lowered the heavy steel bar. “You followed me.”

“Bryn, my job is to make sure you don’t do anything stupid. So yeah. I followed you. When you leave your house in the middle-class version of ninja clothes, I pay attention. You didn’t look like you were running out for milk and kibble.” He walked over, moved her gently but firmly out of the way, and reached into his coat pocket. He had a set of keys, and when he pressed the button, the Lincoln flashed its lights and the door locks disengaged.

“You’ve got his keys,” she said, and pressed her eyes shut. Of course he had the keys; Fairview’s body had been taken to whatever secured facility Pharmadene had designated, and McCallister and Fideli would have access to everything. “Thanks.”

“No problem. What are we looking for?”

There was no point in pretending she was just indulging in some random destruction. “The GPS,” she said. “There was a voice mail today on the company’s line. It sounded like he stood somebody up last night whom he was planning to meet, and it was rescheduled for tonight. Apparently, Fairview knew where the meeting was to take place….”

“And you figured he’d been there before. Decent call. Let’s see what’s what.” Fideli slid into the driver’s seat, fired up the car, and began checking the computer as Bryn slid in on the passenger side. “Home, strip club, home, strip club …”

“That’s something I really didn’t need to imagine about him.”

“You and me both, sweetheart. Here’s something. He went to an unknown address two weeks ago at eleven o’clock at night.” Fideli pulled out his own phone, entered the coordinates, and studied the results. “It’s a warehouse,” he said. “Currently unoccupied. Good bet that it’s where he was meeting his contact; industrial areas are nice and deserted that time of night, especially ones not being rented. What time was the caller saying to meet?”

“Nine,” Bryn said. She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was eight. “There’s something else—another caller. It sounded like a customer, you know, an illegal one. He left a number to call.”

“We’ll get to that one later,” Fideli said, and fastened his seat belt. “If our supplier is expecting Fairview, I don’t want to disappoint him, so we’ll take this car. Strap in.”

Fairview’s car didn’t drive quite as smoothly as hers, but it was still a lush ride. Bryn didn’t enjoy it, mainly because she still smelled Fairview’s cologne trapped in the upholstery, and couldn’t help but think about how coldly he’d ordered her death. She’d so totally misjudged him, and she’d thought her judgment about those kinds of things was solid.

Thinking about Fairview led her to ask, “Any sign of Freddy?”

“Not yet,” Fideli said. “He’ll turn up. He has to, unless he’s got his own supply of the drug stashed somewhere…. Even then, the nanites degrade fast. Two weeks is the longest you can keep the stuff out in the wild, unless you’ve got nitrogen freezers. He’ll have to get to the supplier to make a deal.”

“Or make a deal with Pharmadene,” she said. “Like I did.”

“True that, but I can’t see McCallister getting all warm and fuzzy about hiring Freddy.”

“McCallister would do whatever gets the job done.”

He sent her an unreadable look and said, “You don’t know him that well.”

They drove in silence for a while longer before Fideli reached the turnoff to the warehouse. “Right,” he said. “Here’s how this will go. You’ve got your weapon?”

“Yes.” It was in the pocket of her sweatshirt—not the best place to keep it, but the only one she had, at the moment. She wasn’t going to go all street-corner and stick it in her jeans waistband. She’d seen too many stupid accidents with guys clowning around in the army.

“We roll up and stay in the car.” He pulled off to the side of the road and killed the lights. “Switch. You’re driving.”

“Me? Why?” Too late to ask; he was already out of the car and walking around. She scrambled over the seat and buckled in as he took her spot. “Okay, fine, I’m driving. Now what?”

“Follow the directions.” Fideli took out his gun and checked it with professional calm. “You park somewhere with the passenger side up against the building, preferably out of direct lighting. I’ll get out and into the shadows, and wait for him to pull up next to you on the driver’s side. Then I go around to his passenger door, game over. If things get hairy, hit the gas and get out of the way.”

“I thought I couldn’t die from a bullet wound.”

“You can’t, but it’d hurt, and as the one who would die, I’d rather avoid the whole gun battle. You understand the plan?”

“Yes.” She glanced down at the map. They were at the entrance to the warehouse complex. A turn took her down a deserted, well-maintained road. Four gigantic buildings on the left. Two were occupied, with semi trucks being loaded and forklifts whizzing around. The last two were completely dark, except for security lighting in the parking lots and over the shuttered entrances.

She turned in at the last entrance, made a big circle, and parked as directed with the passenger side close against the building, near the corner. “Joe,” she said, as he turned off the overhead light before opening the door. “Be careful, okay?”

“It warms my heart that you care.”

She tried for a smile. “Well, you’re better than McCallister.”

Fideli leaned in and gave her that odd look again. “Like I said, you don’t know him very well. Lock it.”

He shut the door, and she hit the lock button. He was out of sight in seconds. Damn, the man was stealthy. She supposed she should be happy about that, in these circumstances.

The minutes ticked by, and she watched the clock. Eight thirty crawled by, and then eight forty-five. She fidgeted and wished she dared to play the radio, but she didn’t want to miss anything, even the slightest noise. If Joe Fideli could creep up on her, so could the enemy, and Bryn kept a constant watch on the mirrors around the car.

At eight fifty-eight, she saw headlights on the road. A car turned into the parking lot and glided almost silently across the empty space. It was black, with heavily darkened windows, and it looked fast.

It pulled to an idling stop with the hood facing her, lights boring into the vehicle. Bryn wasn’t sure, but she thought the driver could probably see her through the tinting—at least her silhouette, which looked nothing like Lincoln Fairview‘s. The headlights were blinding, and she couldn’t see a thing.

She heard Fideli suddenly shout, “Bryn, down!” and flung herself sideways, clicking out of the seat belt, just as a hammering chatter of gunfire filled the air. Full auto, she thought, ears rattling and burning from the onslaught of sound, even as she scrambled for the handle of the passenger door. Damn it—locked! She didn’t know where the buttons were, but she flailed at them as bullets shattered the driver’s-side window into bright, flying shards. One sliced a bright red line across her hand, but she didn’t feel any pain through the rush of adrenaline. When she glanced back she saw light shining through holes punched through the metal of the door. The air was full of drifting particles of dust and fluff from the upholstery, and the firing was still going on.

Bryn found the lock release, opened the door, and slithered out to the ground. She scrambled over and put herself behind the engine block, the safest place, as the Lincoln shuddered under the impact of more bullets.

She heard more shots, measured and of a different pitch, coming from the rear of the car, and looked over to see Joe Fideli crouched there as he returned fire. There was a screech of tires, and their attacker pulled out after one last burst of bullets that rang and echoed against the concrete.

Then the car was gone, speeding for the exit.

“Bryn?”

“I’m okay,” she said. “Are you?”

“Fine.” Fideli sounded frustrated as he changed clips on his gun, chambered a round, and holstered the gun. He took out his phone and dialed. “Pat? You got him?” Pat? McCallister? Bryn waited tensely, and Fideli turned away and talked in too low of a voice to be overheard. She stood up on shaky legs. It finally occurred to her that she hadn’t even drawn her gun. Hadn’t fired a single round at the fleeing car. Stupid.

It seemed to take forever, but Fideli hung up and came back to her. He didn’t look happy.

“What happened?” Bryn asked.

“We had the exits from the industrial park covered, but he dumped the car at the next lot over. He may have had another car stashed, or gone on foot. We don’t know where he went from there. There are a lot of trucks coming and going from the other warehouses; he could be hitchhiking on any one of them, and we can’t stop and search them without triggering a lot of questions. He could also have gone on foot; it’s an easy run across the park area over there, and there’s a mall on the other side.”

“What about the car? Can you trace it?”

“Stolen less than two hours ago from a bar,” he said. “Our friend isn’t taking any chances, even at a supposedly friendly meeting. I think he’s a little paranoid.”

“You’re not paranoid if they’re out to get you.”

“True,” Fideli said, as a dark sedan pulled into the lot, and two Pharmadene security men, in the traditional blazers, got out and walked toward them. “Nothing we can do tonight. Let’s get you home. I’ll see you at work tomorrow. Oh, and Bryn?”

“What?”

He smiled and winked at her. “Good effort. But next time, tell me about your stealthy plans first. Not that I wouldn’t be onto them, but it’s nice if we can talk about it.”

The next day, Bryn dressed in a practical gray pantsuit with a shell-pink blouse, minimal makeup and jewelry, and sensible flat shoes to go out to see the progress at Fairview. She took Mr. French with her, because hey, as the boss, she could. Besides, he loved the car, and sticking his head out the window. His doggy joy lightened her mood considerably.

Joe Fideli was already in the parking lot when she arrived, leaning against the hood of his big truck. He nodded to her, and smiled when he saw Mr. French padding along at her heels. “Is it bring-a-friend-to-work day?” he asked.

“He’s not my friend. I never saw him before,” she said, as the dog sat down next to her, regarding Joe with suspicious dark eyes. He growled a little. Joe growled back, which seemed to settle the matter to Mr. French’s satisfaction. “Did you get any sleep at all?”

“Enough. Besides, I didn’t want to be late for work,” he said.

“Any progress on our gun-happy friend from last night?”

“Nothing. We’re pulling security footage all over the place, but right now it looks like he’s a ghost. And I’m guessing he won’t be back in touch for a while.”

That sounded ominous. “What … what does that mean for me?”

“I don’t know.” At least he was honest about it. “For now, we just continue with the plan. You’ve still got a lead on one of the revived. We can work that. Pat’s keeping last night’s little fiasco under wraps for now from the higher ups; his guys won’t talk. There’s got to be another angle we can work.”

She hoped so, because suddenly it felt like her time— already short—was rapidly running out.

Fideli tried to sound positive. “Never mind all that. I’ve got your shot for the day; probably ought to take care of that about noon. My team has cleared the office area for entry, and they tell me they should be finished with the repairs on the prep room and that end of the building soon. You can plan for the grand reopening.”

“Maybe we should rent one of those giant inflatable advertising things,” she said.

“Gorilla?”

“Dracula,” she said. “With the coffin.”

“You might want to go with something a little more subtle.”

“You’re no fun.”

“You know, that’s exactly what my wife tells me, too. Especially when I stay out all night getting shot at.”

Somehow, she doubted that. Fideli, lots more than McCallister, had the makings of someone who understood the meaning of fun without looking it up in the dictionary. “Hey,” she said, following that train of thought, although admittedly with a strange twist, “can you get me a holster for my new, ah, accessory? It’s pretty awkward to carry in my purse.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners, and he walked around to the passenger side of the truck, opened up a lockbox in the bed, and came back with a bag. “Happy birthday,” he said. “If it doesn’t fit, let me know; I’ll return it.”

Inside was a shoulder holster and harness, and she smiled in genuine surprise. “You really think of everything.”

“That’s what they pay me for.” That drained a little of the warmth out of the moment. Fideli turned instead to the main building and made an after-you gesture. “Guess we ought to get started, boss.”

“I guess so,” she said, and walked with him toward the front door, dodging the continuing ant march of construction materials and workers around the front. “What do you know about up-selling?”